Just That
by Andi Horton
Summary: Edited for clarity, post ATY, pre Five Years, etc. for the CD July challenge. Syd and Vaughn's milkman is murdered, and they fight over what to do about it.


Just That

O0O0O0O

_They used to stroll in the rain and build a fire, pull the shades; kiss their away all through the dark_

_She'd whisper all her deepest dreams, he'd tell her she's his everything, she'd lay her head down on his heart _

O0O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O0O

So that's just that.

Wrapped up, signed, sealed, and delivered.

Over.

I find I am still shaking all over- it's such a peculiar feeling, because fighting never does that to me. Unless it's with him- my husband.

Michael.

Fighting with him is like I've just had an operation- severed some vital part from my body. As if he's a part of me.

And, in a way, I guess he is- "and the two shall become one flesh."

But, Biblical references aside, the man was, for a while, seriously under my skin. It's over now, of course, and we made up- made up under circumstances almost as extreme as those we started fighting under. Maybe even more so. And now everything is, more or less, back to normal, but for a while - an eternity, it seemed like - it was worse than a rat's nest.

Oh, it started out simply enough- most fights do.

Ours started with a murder (hey, I said simple, not normal).

Anyway, the milkman was stabbed to death on our doorstep, and that kind of stirred things up around here, because Sackville is pretty much a tranquil place to live. I mean, there was that one time Mr. Estabrooks didn't take his seizure meds, and ended up crashing into the gas pumps at the filling station, but really, not too much ever happens.

We like it like that.

And then whatsisface had to go and get himself killed on our doorstep, which pretty much effectively killed the peace and quiet (it didn't do much for the property values, either, but that's another story).

Once our bulldog, Donovan, had been woken up by the milkman, he came to wake us up, and we'd found the body. Of course the police were called, and they really responded with remarkable promptness. Mike and I answered all their questions like good, responsible citizens, and then retreated to our respectable suburban lifestyle with every intention of carrying on as we always had.

Yeah. Sure.

The questions started as soon as the body was carted away.

Michael, my beloved, my one and only, wandered around asking the neighbors if they'd seen anything 'unusual' a few hours ago. He kept it up until one of them, a Mr. Frank Donald, called me up.

"Mrs. Vaughn," he said, quite politely given the circumstances, "I would be much obliged if you would come and collect your husband. He is upsetting my wife."

"Oh?" I had asked, trying to ignore the nervous, embarrassed knot forming in my stomach. "Er- may I ask what he is- um- doing?"

"Doing, Mrs. Vaughn? Your husband is asking us if we witnessed the cold-blooded murder of your milkman! As if we have nothing better to do at four thirty in the morning than hang out of our window and gape at your front porch! We don't even _get_ milk at our home! I mean- honestly, Mrs. Vaughn!"

So I put down the banister post I was refinishing, and headed for the door, preparing myself for the task of doing my duty to my fellow man. And woman.

By the time I found him, Michael had 'subtly' interrogated the better portion of Bridge Street, and was bound and determined to work his way through the rest of it as well. Only one thing was stopping him- his wife.

"I don't _care_ about your Hardy Boy aspirations, Michael," I growled, stomping one slippered foot on dew-damp concrete, "it's seven a.m. and you're wearing a set of Harvard sweats that have got to be at least a decade old, bedroom slippers, and mismatched socks. You haven't even shaved yet! What sort of impression do you think you're giving our neighbors? They'll have us run out of town, Vaughn!"

I hardly ever use his surname as a form of address any more, but when I'm really, really irritated, and I don't trust myself not to turn into some sort of shrewish fishwife, I resort to old habits. I knew it was a mistake to have raised my voice, because he raised his back. It turned into a shouting match as soon as we got home, and we parted in a whirl of bathrobe, sweats, and unwashed hair. We didn't meet again until we congregated at the breakfast table, the both of us washed, dressed, and slightly more presentable, and attempted to make a go at decent conversation.

It didn't go too well.

He kept complaining that I had treated him like a child, and I kept raging at him for disturbing our neighbors. "We just moved in, Michael!" I exploded. "Just five months we've lived here, and already you've got them mad at us! I _like_ this place, Vaughn. This is a good town, with good people in it, and- and- I want to stay here! Look at how much we've done to the house already! I mean, it's going to be fabulous, Vaughn, it really is! Why can't we just focus on our own lives, and- and let the police deal with the murder, okay? That's their job, now."

"We _can_, Sydney," he said, with that 'I'm trying to be patient' tone of voice that bugs me so much. "But I just want to check this out, all right? It's the least we can do for him- he _was_ our milkman, after all."

I squinted at him.

"Michael, I'll bet you don't even know his name."

"I do, too."

"What is it, then?"

"It was Harold."

"Harold _what_?" I pressed, and he muttered something about what did I care, anyway, and stomped off to get his things to take to work. This left me to throw dishes into the dishwasher, breaking three of them, earning an inaudible, but most likely sarcastic, comment from Vaughn on his way out the back door.

The back door.

Too late I shouted his name; too late, I called out a warning reminder. Too late, I knew, because I could hear the bangs and thud as he went crashing through the plastic we used to cover the framework of our new steps. He came storming through the house, shouting that I should have warned him. And of course that was just plain unfair, because I had, and I told him so. He displayed disbelief, exiting in a thunderclap of rage, leaving me to scramble to gather my own lecture materials for my course, knowing that I was going to be late if I didn't shake a leg.

I broke more municipal traffic laws than I care to reflect on as I rushed to my auditorium, where I barely got in before my students.

"Good morning, everybody," I smiled weakly at them as they seated themselves. "I hope you all had the chance to do your reading last night. Let's get started, shall we?"

I was terrible. I mean, I really was. I was harsh with my students, and overly - I mean, excessively - critical. When one student ventured to say that Shakespeare spoke Old English, I exploded all over her like some sort of freak Linguistic A-bomb. I mean, was a pretty ridiculous mistake for her to make but they're not going to learn anything if I start railing at them that way, are they? By the time I met Dad for lunch, I was a wreck, and he spotted it all the way across the cafeteria.

"Sydney, sweetheart, what's the matter?" he wondered as he sat down across from me.

"Vaughn. Well- Michael. We had a fight. I mean, a big one, Dad. We- I'm not sure he's even going to speak to me when he gets home." Then I detailed that morning's events, and Dad appeared to be severely torn between laughter and sympathy. In the end, he demonstrated great strength of character (not to mention survival instincts) by taking the latter route.

"Sydney, I'm sorry. That must be terrible for both of you."

"_Both_ of us?!" I was shrieking, and drawing attention, but Dad had the presence of mind not to reprimand me, and I barreled on.

"Dad, _I_ am the one who had to haul my cookies out of bed to find a bloody milkman on my doorstep, and _then_ clean up dog pee because I was so busy calling the cops that Donovan went all over the floor. _I_ am the one who had to haul my husband home by his mismatched socks like some truant toddler, not a grown man trying to play detective. Daddy, he hasn't got any training for this sort of thing!"

"No," Dad deadpanned, "he's only a retired agent of the CIA."

"Dad, be quiet!" I glanced around, worried in spite of myself. "You know nobody's supposed to know that! I just- ooh," I broke off impotently, "I'll just be glad when I can get home. This day could not possibly get any worse."

That was how much _I_ knew.

O0O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O0O

When I got home I couldn't stomach the thought of another argument with Sydney. She always seems to get the upper hand, both in decibels and in logic. So, instead of speaking to her, I went straight into my study and slammed the door. I could hear her stomping upstairs, and banging the door to our own bedroom twice as hard. We didn't see each other at all that night, and that gave me plenty of time to think.

I didn't understand how this could be happening. It had blown up literally out of nowhere; it seemed like only yesterday we'd been promising that we'd never fight, that we were going to do everything within our power to make each other happy. But now- neither of us quite wanted to admit that our hearts were crying at our stubborn minds, saying that they were suffocating to death.

My mind argued back, of course, pointing out that it could hear her foot tapping above my head, a sure sign that she was steamed. Even then, though, I couldn't quite really be mad at her, though I'm not sure why.

Maybe it was because I could still feel her, wet and laughing, huddling against me as we strolled out into a rain storm shortly after we bought our new house, soaking ourselves to the skin before we ran back inside, and made use of our new fireplace. We built up a blazing fire to dry off in front of, and we'd pulled the blinds because it was getting dark, and then- well- she hadn't just kissed me once, okay?

My everything, I had called her that night.

And every night after that.

But that night had been special. We hadn't just been married that night- we'd been friends. It had been a while since we'd really talked with each other like that- the last time had been a while after we'd started dating, right before the SD-6 takedown. She'd cuddled up against me, with her head pillowed on my chest, and talked about everything she wanted to do once we got rid of Sloane and everybody associated with him.

Marriage hadn't been mentioned, per se, but it had been hinted at, and that had been enough for me. I'd bought her an engagement ring the next day, though I didn't actually present it to her for a few weeks after.

We'd been crazily, stupidly in love. It had felt great. And now look at us- neither of us, speaking, neither, of us willing to budge. I had always wondered how guys got themselves out of situations like this- I guessed that now I was going to have to figure it out for myself.

O0O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O0O

I guess that I was madder than I realised at the time. If I'd been thinking straight, I'd have seen that this was not the way to solve a problem in an relationship- shutting yourself off, not speaking, not wanting to understand that his heart was hurting as much as mine at everything that was, apparently, killing off our love.

Love, I know now, can't be killed just because you're mad at each other. It gets killed when you don't talk about why you're mad, and what you can do about it. But Vaughn and I were new at it, so you're going to have to excuse us. Instead of going to him and expressing just exactly what I found so troubling about him wanting to go investigating a milkman's murder while wearing an outdated jogging outfit and offensive footwear, I stayed in our room and fumed.

I fumed all the way through a plate of cold cuts I went down to get when my stomach growled, and three pieces of chocolate cake that were going to reappear on my hips in a few days. I fumed my sleepy way into bed, not knowing if Vaughn was bedding down in a guest room, or on the couch, or wherever, and not caring, either.

Well, not really.

I mean, I was still in love with the man- he was still the same man who had phoned my apartment for pizza more times than I could keep track of. He was the man who had run up and down a painful number of stairs for me while I was being doused with gasoline, about to become an entrée at the Bristow family barbecue. He was the man I had fallen in love with, and would have done anything for. He was the man whose car, one weekend, we had jumped into and driven until we liked what we saw, got out, and spread a blanket on the ground. He was the man I had lain on that blanket with, and watched clouds blow happily across the expanse of blue California countryside sky, far away from the grey of the city.

"The country sky," he had mused then, "is so much nicer than the city sky. The city sky makes you think that maybe death is a solid option- the country sky tells you life is worth living after all."

I thought of him, and how I always saw him, and how I would still see him, if only I would open my stubborn eyes and my aching heart long enough to swallow my pride and go talk to him.

And I cried myself to sleep.

O0O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O0O

It was not a comfortable couch, all right?

Enough said.

O0O0O0O

The next morning I was a wreck- a wreck who had to go to school, and fill lots of bright and eager minds with knowledge.

Wrecks don't do knowledge too well, so the kids might have gotten a bit cheated, but I wasn't really worried about that. Instead, I was concerning myself with how, exactly, I was going to express to Sydney once I got home that I didn't want to fight anymore. That I wanted, more than anything, to do whatever it took to work through a fight over the stupidest thing imaginable- I mean, had I really run outside to try and figure out who had killed our milkman?

Not, I am sure, that he wasn't a very milkman, as milkmen go, but really, Vaughn- slippers and Harvard sweats? Come on, now!

The prospect of apologising had me so filled with nervous excitement that at lunch time I spilled my soup in my lap, contracted an extremely painful burn, and had to spend the rest of the school day in Outpatients.

So it turns out that apologising and communicating is a lot less trouble than - well - not.

O0O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O0O

Okay, I may as well confess right now that, while Vaughn was busy growing up with the French version of Hardy Boys, I was immersed in Nancy Drew. And one thing about that girl is, once you get her, she sticks with you for life.

So all through irregular verbs, half of me was trying to convince the other half that maybe I knew something relevant to the case myself, because, after all, it had been my milkman, and it was my doorstep. The other half argued back that I was Sydney Vaughn, not Nancy Drew, and that wasn't I currently embroiled in a bitter argument because my own husband had tried to pull a Sherlock Holmes? The end result of this was that I was, again, a basket case by lunch time, and Dad, as usual, noticed right away.

"Sydney, sweetheart, you and Mike really have to talk about this," he explained, concerned. "This isn't healthy."

"I know, I know, Dad. Especially since I keep feeling that maybe I- I dunno. Mmm, this looks good."

Dad watched me tuck into macaroni and cheese with a distinct air of suspicion.

"Sydney?"

"Mm?"

"Is there something you would like to tell me?"

"No."

"Sydney?"

"Yeah?"

"Look at me."

I obliged.

"Now, are you _sure_ there is nothing you would like to tell me?"

"No, Dad. I- I'm just upset, is all. Remember, before Vaughn and I were at each other's throats, we had a dead guy on our doorstep."

"Yes, Sydney, I know that, but it wouldn't be the first time you saw a dead body, though I will grant you it was most inconsiderate of him to meet his opponent on your doorstep. That's why I don't get milk at home- I go out for it. Much simpler, really, not having to flip that silly tag over each time you don't want another bottle dropped off on your front step."

"Yeah, I guess you- whoa."

My fork clatters to my plate.

"Sydney?" Dad asks, concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine, Dad." I stammered, trying to conceal the fact that I had just had a major revelation. "I- I think I'm going to- I'm just going to go home, all right? I haven't got any classes this afternoon, and- and I'll see you shortly, okay?"

I leaned over, pecked him lightly on the cheek, and ran from the cafeteria, hoping I'd at least mollified him, if not fooled him completely.

I should have known better.

O0O0O0O

_Jack_

O0O0O0O

I have never claimed to have been a model father for my daughter. All through her growing up years, I was distant, cold, and I flatter myself that I gave the best impression ever that I just didn't care.

But I also happen to have been a spy, and as such, was trained to be observant. And it didn't take James Bond to see that my daughter was hiding something from me- I think that even that dog of theirs could have figured it out with just a look at her.

The question was, what did one do about it? She was thirty years old, not three. I couldn't very well go to her and demand an explanation from her, and not expect a brush-off. I had to be subtle.

Fortunately for me, subtle is second nature to me.

Unfortunately for me, the one thing I really lose my head over is my daughter.

Let's just say I knew that subtle wasn't going to happen this time.

O0O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O0O

I don't suppose it's any real secret that, even at the best of times, Outpatients is a pretty tedious place to be. But when you have that painful, itchy, hot sensation that always accompanies a burn tingling in your - well - lap, Outpatients goes from tedious to something like the longest waiting line on Earth. I had been waiting in it for over two hours when Jack Bristow came running in, looking as anxious as I'd ever seen him.

"Jack?" I got to my feet, puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

"They said at the school that I'd find you here," he panted, then for the first time saw where, exactly, I was clutching an ice pack, and his eyebrows scaled his forehead. "But they didn't tell me the extent of your injuries. Are you- er- mobile?"

"Oh, yeah," I reassured him. "It was just some hot soup. I wasn't paying attention- I was actually thinking about Syd. You probably know we've been - uh- not really speaking for the past day or so. I just realised today that I was being really childish- we're worth a lot more than some stupid fight."

"That's a very glowing sentiment, Mike," Jack assured me, "but right now, I think we should probably more concentrate on finding out what, exactly, your wife - my daughter - is up to."

"Why? She's not hurt, or anything, is she?" I asked, so worried that I forgot, for the moment, to hold the ice pack in place.

"Well, no. I just think that maybe she- she figured something out. About this- er - unfortunate milkman of yours. At least, we were discussing him when she became quite excited, and took off with hardly so much as a 'Same time tomorrow, Dad'."

"You think maybe she knows who - uh - killed him?"

"Well, if not, she has a pretty strong idea about who did. And it isn't as if she can't take care of herself, but still, I can't help but be- be a little worried." He looked embarrassed about it, but not enough to back down.

"Sure, Jack," I agreed, "yeah, I understand completely. I'll just- ow." I sat back down abruptly at the reminding tug on the damaged skin between my legs.

"Mike, how bad is that burn?" Jack demanded.

"I don't know- that's what I'm here to find out," I pointed out, grimacing. "It was tomato soup, and you know how tomatoes hold the heat. It hurt pretty badly at first, but as long as I have the ice on it, it isn't too bad."

"Well, keep the ice on it, then, and I'll see how long you have to wait."

He headed over to the counter, and I wondered who to pity more- the nurse he was about to accost, or Jack himself. He may have been forceful, but the nurse held her own, and they were still exchanging words when another nurse called my name, and said that the doctor would see me now.

He actually saw quite a bit of me before he was done. I was given a prescription for an ointment, and instructions on how to - ahem - wrap and care for my injury, and then returned to the waiting room, where Jack and the nurse were still squabbling.

I pulled Jack away with an effort, and together we returned to my house, only to find that Sydney was not there. Only a hungry cat, a dog who really, really had to go outside, and a phone book lying open on the counter by the phone.

Not to put too dramatic a spin on it, but Sydney had vanished.

O0O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O0O

I knew very well that later I would kick myself for this. I knew it because of all the Nancy Drew books I had read over the years, and because I knew my husband well enough to know he was not going to be pleased that I did the same thing I'd yelled at him for doing the morning before. But I am also somebody who is reasonably inquisitive by nature, and I did feel badly that Harold whatisname had to get killed on our doorstep, so I didn't back down.

Rather, when I got home I made a phone call to the Northumberland Dairy, and confirmed a few things. Then I took a deep breath, and headed down the road to Mr. and Mrs. Donalds' house.

Mrs. Donald, being a Mount Allison professor herself, despite the fact that she's now half deaf and losing her eyesight, was not at home. Mr. Donald might be, though- he was on the pallbearers' roster at the funeral home down the street, so I was going to have to be careful.

Of course, I did have the advantage of a little training. It was not a problem to jimmy open the front door, and sneak inside. Nor was it a problem to make sure that nobody was lying in wait for me. Then I went around to each window in the house on little cat feet, peeking out each one, trying to see my house.

I couldn't.

My last stop was the route by which I had come in- the front door. I swung it open, took one step out, and craned my neck to try and see my house- or, more specifically, the front step of my house.

A massive evergreen shrub rose up before me, obstructing my view so that, yet again, I simply couldn't see it.

I later decided that it had been more instinct than anything else that made me spin around, and hold up my arms to deflect the blow. I hadn't heard any footsteps, and you couldn't see any shadows on the porch- not even my own. But something made me spin around, and put up my hands before the vase came crashing down on my head- though not soon enough. It still caught me on my temple, and everything went hazy.

I was out before I even hit the ground.

O0O0O0O

_Jack_

O0O0O0O

I had to give Michael credit for not immediately doing anything stupid. I was fully prepared to hold him back forcibly, if necessary, but I ended up being impressed by his self-control.

That doesn't mean he didn't get all white and slump to the ground - that happens even to the best of us from time to time - but at least he didn't go charging out into the street to hunt Sydney down himself.

He was still a little pale when he came to himself on the couch, and I passed him some Pepsi, because they still hadn't gotten around to installing a wet bar (priorities vary so greatly in each generation, don't they? That was the first thing I set up in my apartment).

He didn't drink it, but instead suggested that we call the police. I pointed out that this might be a little premature since Sydney was, after all, a grown woman, and, as far as we knew, balanced in her thought processes.

"That's what they say about me, too, though," Mike muttered, in a weak attempt at humor. "I mean, except for the woman part."

I smiled obligingly, and then suggested that, since the telephone book was lying on the counter, it was reasonable to assume that she had called somebody since she got home. It might be a good idea, I said, should we try to find out, using redial, who Sydney called last.

Mike had to see the logic in that, so we hit speakerphone, and redial, and a chipper young lady asked what Northumberland Dairy could do for us today.

"I believe a woman called you anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour ago," Mike explained, "and I was wondering if you could possibly remember what it was she wanted to know."

"Of course, Sir," the Northumberland lady reassured him. "Let's see- I believe one lady called to see where her milk delivery was, another called to say that she was moving, and wouldn't need milk delivery, one wanted to know about one milkman's schedule and if somebody else on her street was getting milk from us, and one-"

"Go back," Vaughn said quickly. "That last woman. The schedule- was that for Harold? The milkman who was- was killed yesterday?"

"Yes, I believe it was. Poor Harold- the funeral's today, you know. Very sad thing, that."

"Yes, it was." Vaughn agreed. "Now, could you please try to remember exactly what she asked you, and exactly what you told her? It could be very important."

"I'll try, Sir. Let me see, now- she wanted to know at what time Harold got to a certain house on Bridge Street, and when I explained I couldn't say for sure, she wanted to know if I could say when he got to the street, and at what time he finished it. I told her that, as far as I knew, he started the street at roughly quarter after four, and finished at twenty or quarter to five. Then she asked me if one house in particular - number sixty-two - got milk. I told her no."

"I see. And- whose house is number sixty-two, do you know?" Vaughnasked tersely.

"Yes, I believe I can tell you- they used to get milk from us, you see. I believe - now, let me check our records - that it belongs to - did she say Donald? A Mr. Donald? Would that be correct?"

"Yes," Vaughnrasped, "yes, it would be. Thank-you very much."

"Not at all, Sir, and thank you for choosing Northumberland."

Mike hung up, and looked up at me with a grim expression on his face. When he spoke, it was obvious he was growing worried.

"Let's you and me pay a little call on the Donalds, all right?"

O0O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O0O

I probably wasn't the most rational of men by the time I knocked on Frank and Betty Donald's door, but I felt lucid enough to demand of her, the second Betty opened the door, if she knew where my wife was. She looked suitably baffled, and I was getting pretty hot under the collar, so Jack interrupted me smoothly.

"You see, Betty," he said apologetically, "Sydney seems to be among the missing. Yours is the last name that she appears to have been - er - interested in, and so we were wondering if she might have paid a call on you at some point today after the hour of twelve."

"I'm sure I'd like to help you, Jack," she stammered, "but the last time I saw Sydney was yesterday, when she came and dragged you, Michael, home by you ear." Her eyes twinkled at me, and I blushed.

"I was meaning to apologise for that," I muttered.

"Not at all," she chuckled. "I haven't been so entertained in years as was I when you showed up in your adorable jogging suit and those socks- I didn't know they made purple socks for a man your size. Or do you have small feet, Mr. Vaughn?"

"Er, no, I think they're fairly large," I mumbled, checking them out. "I- you're sure Sydney hasn't been by?"

"Well," she explained, "I did just get home about an hour ago. I would naturally have missed her if she had come before then. But Frank was home for a while. He just went over now to get ready for poor Harold's funeral- he needs to get the flowers assembled, and the - er - remains in the coffin. Closed coffin funeral, of course, because I understand that there was extensive damage."

She looked pained.

"We knew him ourselves for a while, but Frank was quite angry when he kept bringing the milk late, so we cancelled our order. Only Frank- well, he hasn't been very well as of late, you know? The doctor says it comes with age, of course, and that I should be prepared for any number of little inconsistencies. So- well, he kept forgetting that we went to the store to buy it, and getting angrier and angrier when the milk didn't come each morning. I had to keep explaining that we'd cancelled it- poor Frank," she explained, "is getting older. I remember, though, he used to be able to lift me up quite easily, and carry me around the house. He was always such a strong man- he still is. That's why they use him as a pallbearer, if the family of the - er- deceased hasn't enough able bodies."

She broke off, embarrassed.

"Listen to me rambling on, Mr. Vaughn, I- why, Michael, is something wrong?"

I was standing, thunderstruck, as a terrible idea hit me. If somebody was really becoming unhinged, and knew the schedule of the milkman he thought was deliberately slighting his house . . . I shuddered, then spoke abruptly.

"Mrs. Donald- the funeral. It's at the home right now, isn't it?"

"Well, yes. Closed coffin service, as I said, but the coffin itself will be on display until shortly after five this evening. Then the graveside service will be at-"

But I was already gone, running up the street, Jack shouting after me, then eventually tailing along behind.

I only hoped I wouldn't be too late.

O0O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O0O

It stank in there. I mean, it really, really stank.

I almost threw up, but then I'd have to lie in it for who knew how long, so I restrained myself, and wondered if it would be too much to hope for my husband to rescue me, just one more time.

O0O0O0O

_Jack_

O0O0O0O

I was surprised at how fast he was, and truly grateful that I had a good idea of where he was going. I was rewarded when, sure enough, he turned into the circular driveway of Jones Funeral Home, and dashed inside.

O0O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O0O

I think I scared more than a few people almost enough to soon require the services of the funeral home themselves. I did probably look a mess, but I wasn't worried about that. Rather, I headed straight for the closed coffin, and struggled to lift the lid. There were the expected gasps and screams of indignation, but I was past hearing them. I banged on the lid in frustration when I found that it was heavier than I had anticipated. Whirling around, I caught sight of Frank Donald scuttling out the door- and running right into Jack Bristow's more than capable hands.

He caught hold of him, and dragged him back into the room.

"Open it," I gasped, and his gaze wandered around the room. I stepped up, grabbed the lapels of his suit, and slammed him up against the wall. Jack barely got his fingers out of the way in time.

"_OPEN IT!_" I screamed. "If she's dead, that's two murders, and crazy or not, they'll put you away for life for that- if I don't kill you first. Now, _open it_!"

He muttered something about not knowing what I was talking about, and I drew back my fist. He cringed, and I threw him up against the coffin.

"Do it. Now. Or I swear to you they will carry you out of here feet first."

He hesitated only a second longer, because Jack, who had only just figured out what I had, stepped up as well, and flexed his arms experimentally. It had not been long at all since he had snapped a bone in pursuit of knowledge regarding his daughter's whereabouts, and although Frank Donald couldn't have known that, it didn't take an Einstein to see that Jack Bristow was fully capable of doing just that.

He turned around without another murmur, and fiddled with the lid.

He had it off in less than a minute, and Sydney was revealed, lying on top of poor old Harold. She was as white as a sheet and gasping piteously. A horrified murmur went up around thew room as I stepped forward and helped her out, and she tested her feet out uncertainly.

Then she kissed me.

Hard.

I mean, really hard.

I'm not going to lie to you, it felt pretty good.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, when she finally let me come up for air, "I am so, so sorry, Michael. I love you, I love you more than anything, and I don't ever want to fight with you again. If you want to run around this town buck naked and solve every crime before the cops do, then lover, you have my blessing. But please, just please don't be mad at me, and please, please say you forgive me."

I looked at her, and I thought quite possibly I had never seen anything so very beautiful as that face.

"I love you," I whispered. "I love you so, so much. I wanted to come home and apologise to you, and when I found out that maybe the last words I said to you had been angry ones, I almost died. Now, I can't say we won't fight ever again, but I do ask you that you give me the pleasure of being the first one to apologise. Because I could ask for no greater privilege than apologising to you. I love you, Sydney, and I will until I die. That's my promise."

She was crying, I think- I couldn't be sure, because I kissed away each tear before it fell. I was feeling pretty damp myself by the time she had recovered enough to see Frank, held in her father's clutches. Her eyes narrowed.

"_You_."

I think his knees were trembling as she advanced on him, and Jack threw me a questioning glance.

"Mike? What do you want me to do?"

I smiled.

"I believe it was a wise fellow named Sacha Guitry who said 'When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her.'"

I squinted at Frank Donald. "Well, Mr. Donald? You want to take my wife on in an honest fight?"

Sydney whirled, her foot striking out at the mahogany coffin, and carving a deep fissure down the center of it.

Frank Donald fainted dead away.

I smiled. "Didn't think so."

Then I held out my hand to my wife, and wondered how I could possibly make her understand everything I wanted her to. I wanted to let her know I was more than sorry, I was impossibly grateful to have her not just alive, but mine, forever and ever. I wanted to let her know I had been an idiot. That I'd gladly make an idiot of myself all over again, if only for her sake, but all I could think of was one rather idiotic question, and so I asked it.

"Well, my dear? Shall we retire?"

She beamed at me, and she was so, so beautiful I nearly couldn't handle it.

"I can think of nothing I would like better, Mr. Vaughn," she purred, "than to retire with you."

Then, hand in hand, we strolled out into a soft rain that had begun to fall. Before we got home, we were soaked through to the skin.

O0O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O0O

Well, we had to build a fire, of course. We were drenched. And we pulled the shades, and, well-

Y'know.

That's just that.

O0O0O0O

O0O0O0O

I got a bunch of wonderful reviews for this fic, but the general consensus seemed to be I rushed it a bit, and didn't make it clear why whodunit dunnit. Upon re-reading it, I agree, I apologise, and, since the challenge is over, I can make it as long as I want, and nobody can stop me. Mwahahaha . . .

Um, yes.

Did you like it? Or did you still not get it? Is there something you think could do with a bit of polishing? In any case please let me know! I would really be delighted to hear from you.

Now for those yucky little things that you all know anyway-

"That's Just That" is a cute, if somewhat fast-paced, little ditty that belongs to Diamond Rio. Since I prefer the radio version, where the couple actually makes up, to the lyrics you find at their website, the radio lyrics were the ones I used to write this.

Alias doesn't belong to me, of course, and if you thought it did, then well, I'm flattered, but you need to seek help. Instead, it belongs to ABC and Touchtone, and was created by JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions (does that name freak out anybody beside me? Just wonderin')


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